A Cultivation Of The Powers Of One's

Few People Even Scratch The Surface, Much Less Exhaust The Contemplation Of Their Own Experience.

War Is The Health Of The State.

A Man With Few Friends Is Only Half-developed; There Are Whole Sides Of His Nature Which Are Locked Up And Have Never Been Expressed. He Cannot Unlock Them Himself, He Cannot Even Discover Them; Friends Alone Can Stimulate Him And Open Him.

The Ironic Life Is A Life Keenly Alert, Keenly Sensitive, Reacting Promptly With Feelings Of Liking Or Dislike To Each Bit Of Experience, Letting None Of It Pass Without Interpretation And Assimilation, A Life Full And Satisfying - Indeed A Rival Of The Religious Life.

No Matter What We Have Come Through, Or How Many Perils We Have Safely Passed, Or How Many Imperfect And Jagged - In Some Places Perhaps Irreparably - Our Life Has Been, We Cannot In Our Heart Of Hearts Imagine How It Could Have Been Different. As We Look Back On It, It Slips In Behind Us In Orderly Array, And, With All Its Mistakes, Acquires A Sort Of Eternal Fitness, And Even, At Times, Of Poetic Glamour.